A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed - I appreciate the encouragement! :) I do notice the story is being read quite a bit, so if you haven't made a comment yet, please don't be shy. I don't bite (that's not this kind of story - haha! {inside joke}) - and I would love to hear from you... And now...
Chapter XXIX
.
Christine sat with her back flush against Erik's chest as they rode to the campsite, grateful for his arms that held her, cradling her in their strength as he held fast to the reins. A watery sun made a feeble exit behind storm-tossed clouds, its parting shimmer barely able to pierce through the boughs of the verdant forest. Even as that thought passed through her mind, the splat of a droplet struck her cheek with a chill that startled. Her eyes turned upward with grave observation, though at this point of their journey she could see little of the clouds, only endless fronds of leaves. The precursor of rain seemed an omen to what the day foretold for them.
Eustace and Tobias rode ahead, Erik keeping his distance several lengths behind. He took advantage of their small privacy to inform her of his bleak conversation with the gruff Scotsman, and she listened with mounting horror.
The band of ruffians held Erik responsible, simply because he wasn't with them at the time?
"But that is absurd! Why should they blame you?"
"Apparently, as Le Masque, I forgot to warn them of the perils of gunpowder. It has only recently been introduced in this window of time, I believe, and the fools were uneducated with how to use it. Though one would think that any weapon paired with the word explosion might suggest a danger." He shook his head at such ignorance. "Once we enter the campsite, you're to go inside the tent and wait for me there," he quietly ordered.
The thought of her husband facing those men of villainy alone brought a shiver of trepidation. "Erik, no, I want to stand by your side."
"It is unwise, what with the way they perceive you. They still suspect you of being a witch. It is best for you to remain unseen while I talk to them."
She frowned at his reminder of their ridiculous presumption of her character. "But I can be there to remind you of anything you may have forgotten."
"It is not necessary, Mon Ange." Hearing the sweet endearment she once thought never to behold again, a frisson of joy warmed the iciness that chilled her soul upon hearing news of the botched rescue attempt. "Eustace is aware of my forgetful state and the dark spells; should I be unaware of anything said, it will not pose suspicion."
"But I want to be there," she worried. "I don't want you to face those men alone. Why must we be parted at all? I'm not afraid of them."
Half a truth, but with Erik nearby - once the Phantom who challenged an entire opera house to be with her and evaded the Vicomte's every snare to prevent it - she felt reassured that he would keep her safe. It wasn't for her protection she feared, but his own. Whereas his regard for her was continual, he took far too many risks when it was his own life hanging in the balance.
"Christine," her name came a shade on the dark side of impatience, but still gentle. "Nothing will happen to me. The Opera Ghost has faced much worse than a group of disgruntled reprobates."
Christine looked away in dissatisfaction. His mask and proclivity to hide from the world spoke of vulnerability, though he boasted in mild arrogance, as if he were untouchable. Did he forget that he could bleed like any other mortal? The scars on his body proved it, and Christine feared that those ruffians might add to their number.
"What if they attack you?"
"Then it is all the more opportune that you remain inside the tent."
His glib answer only chafed the marrow of her fear. "Do not jest about such a terrible thing! I only just found you again – what if those men tear you apart? Tear us apart?" She half-turned desperate eyes to seek his. They gleamed beneath hooded lids as he dropped them to observe her, the emotion in them unreadable. "Erik – let us leave – now. Let us turn the horse around and race away in the other direction as we planned."
He shifted the reins to one hand and slipped his arm around her middle, just beneath her breasts, holding her more securely against him. "With the Vicomte's soldiers lying in wait and around every unknown bend, upon further consideration of the matter such an action would be unwise. I am unfamiliar with this region and all it entails. Until I can educate myself with what is necessary to survive in this land, in this century, we should remain within the camp."
Hardly mollified but recognizing that stubborn set to his jaw, she brought her attention ahead of them to the path and the two horses walking ahead.
They had survived well enough during the week away from Brittany, and she felt they could manage on their own. It wouldn't be easy, but nothing worthwhile ever was. She had learned what she must not say and how she must not act under Le Masque's guidance; surely she could offer the same instruction to Erik, now that he no longer recalled all of what was needed to exist in this life.
Bending his lips to her ear, he whispered, "Cease to frown, my dear. I'll not send you away, nor will I leave you. On that you have my word."
His earnest vow was a comfort, though she could not shake the misgiving that this was all a dreadful mistake.
All too soon the smell of woodsmoke in the air told them they had reached their unwelcome destination. They came up the back way, along the eastern path he'd taken the night she nearly drowned in the lake, and approached the rear of their tent. Grimly Christine regarded the old canvas staked to the ground with ropes, having hoped she would never see it again.
Erik brought the horse to a halt, swinging down then helping Christine to dismount. His strong hands spanned her waist, slipping up her sides near her breasts as she slid through his hold until her feet touched the ground. Their eyes caught and held, a mirror to their hearts. Indecision and dread flickered in the surface of blue-grey and mink-brown, but deep within the searching orbs trust and love shone with steady assurance.
Erik clasped Christine's waist and brought her a willing step closer, grazing his lips against her furrowed brow. "Go inside and wait for me."
"If I must," she mumbled. "I still don't like it."
His smile came twisted. "Once upon a time, you followed my instructions without contradiction."
"Once upon a time you were an angel descended from heaven and I, a naïve child."
He brought his hand to cup her jaw and brush a thumb across pouting lips. "It is difficult to believe you were once that same frightened little girl." He shook his head in self-recrimination. "My motives were reprehensible, to lead you into such deception. I wish, imperfect creature that I am, to have been able to give you back your glorious angel."
"Oh, Erik." Tears stung her eyes that he found himself so unworthy. "Despite every truth I came to know about your mortality, you will always be my angel." She brought her hand up to cover his. "But you are also a man, of flesh and blood and bone. Please keep that in mind, and promise me you'll be careful."
His smile grew dim at the reminder of the upcoming confrontation, and brusquely he nodded. With one final caress to her cheek, he turned and strode toward the muted din of voices coming from the main area of the campsite.
Christine watched a moment as he joined Eustace, and the two men talked before continuing to the center of camp. Heavy spots of moisture struck her head, and she looked up, just as a shower of rain suddenly pelleted her face. Rubbing the water from her eyes, she ducked into their tent, but strayed no further from its entrance, where she peered out the flap, unwilling to take her attention off her husband. She might be powerless to do anything to lend aid, should a fracas result, but that did not change her desire to be aware of all that transpired.
Despite the inclement weather, the men did not stray from their gathering spot to seek shelter. Upon catching sight of Erik, two of the brigands rose to their feet in arrogant defiance. No one outwardly confronted him, however, and Christine sensed that no matter their discontent, many were intimidated by the man they thought their leader - not to her surprise. The Phantom of the Opera also presented a formidable presence and had a lifetime as practice; if anyone could strike fear to the core of man, it was Erik.
It was then she noticed what her widening eyes had not seen before...
A rope now dangled from his hand.
xXx
During his reign as the Opera Ghost, what he remembered of it, Erik conducted his business with the managers and those who opposed him from the distant and dark rafters. Only once did he come into their midst to join them, the night of the Bal Masque, and that had proved a cataclysmic mistake.
With no convenient trapdoor to fall back into, the sea of angered faces a testament to the atmosphere of this forced meeting, he struggled to restrain his animosity and retain a seemingly unreachable calm. For a matter of weeks, in the unwitting guise of their leader, he had been one among their populace and met with a measure of success. Now, fully aware of his true identity, the vulnerability that had always screamed to hide and defend came as a dull roar at the knowledge that he once managed to control this band of renegades. They had actually listened to him and followed his directives. Biting back the old terror, he forced aside the memory of a murderous mob as these men likewise surrounded him in a half circle. He stood motionless, a stone's toss away, though no one had yet to speak or act. But old fears died hard, and as he addressed them, he slowly worked the rope in his hands into familiar and soothing loops and knots.
In the deep Phantasmal timbre he once used in the uppermost balcony of the Opera House, he projected his voice to be heard by all. "I am told there is dissension among you. Some here do not approve of the manner in which I run this clandestine organization of thievery." At the clear cluelessness in their daft expressions, he clarified, "this band of thieves."
"Thieves, you call it," one gruff voice dared intrude. Erik snapped his gaze two horse-lengths away to the bearded ruffian, whose slovenly attire looked as if he had wallowed in a pigsty and the rain coming down did little to appease. "More like a band of sloths! We have not stolen a centime since that witch came – and now ye've brought her back!"
Erik's hands spasmodically tightened on the newly formed noose. "That will do," he snapped. "I'll not hear another word against the lady."
"When will we strike?" another voice called out. "It's been an age, and you promised us gold!"
"Aye!" the shouted reply instigated a loud chorus of agreement.
"We want our gold!"
"When will we strike?!"
"You promised us wealth!"
"SILENCE!" Erik's roar could be heard above the violent stir of the mob and the rain striking the ground.
A pall of thick and coiled quiet ensued, like a viper waiting to strike.
"You promised us," someone had the effrontery to yell, which resulted in a wave of wrathful mumbling and accusation.
"It's because of you we lost Aubert!" the first bearded ruffian cried. "Had you been there, he would not have died!"
"And Marcel would not be wounded!"
"Aye!" came a rolling wave of agreement as several men nodded. A few stepped closer, with ill intent in their every movement. One of the closest men put his hand to the hilt of his dagger.
"Those who are not pleased with my decisions and wish to leave my command may do so now," Erik grimly responded.
"Not without our share of the gold, we won't," came a cry, immediately followed by another savage wave of agreement.
So, the faint memory he had of a treasure had been correct, though he had no idea where it might be stashed.
"Stay if you will, but there will be changes made," Erik announced. "To start with, there will be no more nighttime raids made upon the chateau." The less he had to do with the current Vicomte, the better. A de Chagny was a de Chagny was a wretched fiend. "Other means will be employed to receive capital…" At the dumb looks on their faces, he added, "Gold."
"What of the gold in the treasury?" the first ruffian groused. "Where is that?"
Erik was unwilling they should know he had little memory of any gold, much less where such wealth was located. He glanced toward Eustace, who nodded once in signal and stepped closer.
"You scurvy lot know only I and the, er, Phantom are privy to where it's kept," the burly Scot addressed the throng, surprising Erik to hear his chosen moniker of his century used. "Keep your trap shut, Richard. Ye'll get your share when the time comes."
"Aye – and when is that?"
"In due course," Eustace answered. "Ye have nowhere to spend it at this time. The last we gave you men your full cut of the haul we had more strife than a deadly snake prodded with a short stick."
"It's that woman," the man called Richard insisted, setting tinder to the fuse of Erik's escalating fury. "She has brought her witchcraft here and put a spell on you!"
"Aye," the man supported his claim.
"Since she came, you have turned on us – taking the wench to Paris, keeping her in your tent – wedding the bitch. She cast a spell on you, and you're too much a fool to see it. The only place for her kind is strapped to a stake with the fire licking at her soles –"
In the next instant, Erik whipped his arm forward, the rope whistling through the air until the Punjab found its suffocating mark. He snapped his hand down, bringing the filthy scoundrel falling to his knees. The fool, Richard, grasped vainly at the rope cinching his neck and choked in great gulping gasps, his face soon achieving a violet hue. All around the men stood and stared in a silence of horrified shock. But it was the stir beyond the trees that captured Erik's keen gaze, to where Christine stood fully in the entrance of their tent and stared. Even from this distance, he sensed her terror…
And it was in that moment, the pitiless memory of the night of the Don Juan came rushing back into the periphery of his thoughts. The look of abject shock and terrified confusion had been etched in her expressive eyes, certain to be there now, her features just as pallid and drawn…
He slackened his stranglehold on the rope, but did not let it drop from his hands. In a few swift moves, he had the cur's throat unbound and re-looped the weapon, gathering it back into the makeshift pouch that acted like a pocket, its straps sewn inside the cloak. At least the absent Le Masque owned one suitable item of clothing, though if he had the elusive gold, the Phantom would gladly trade a sack of coins for his more familiar wardrobe of trousers that did not fit so snugly to calf, thigh, and genitalia, and a frock coat with pockets galore.
He glared at the fool gasping at his feet. "You will leave this camp and never return," he grated out. "Should you make the fatal attempt, I will not be slack with the rope upon our next meeting or, perhaps, a blade shall be your deadly end. I am well-versed in both." He lifted burning eyes to engage the band, bafflement having replaced the ire on their faces. "Should any of you dare speak against my wife, be it threat or insult," he said quietly, loud enough for only them to hear, "you will receive the same treatment as this rogue. If any man among you has no intent to abide by my rules or accept the changes I choose to incorporate, leave now or you will rue the day."
"What changes?" a voice, not as confident as before queried.
"We will no longer assume a Robin Hood mentality to procure income," he decided, certain Christine would never agree to be part of such a scheme of thievery, but more than that, his need to maintain her safety did not allow for a manner of life that taunted prison. At the Opera House he took all he wanted from the plentiful stores of props and costumes in the cellars, along with the monetary wealth he extorted from the management. Pilfering was no stranger to his nature, the straight and narrow hardly a companion, but for Christine, he would attempt to change; she had given him an intriguing idea to implement, one perfect for their characters and which she would surely embrace.
"I will speak of the new arrangements after I have rested and when the weather is more amenable. Eustace…" He glanced at the Scot, noting he appeared as stunned by the proceedings as the rest of the men. "Take out the rubbish." He sneered at his near victim, still on his knees in the mud.
"You will send me away without coin?" the brigand wheezed, his voice sounding coarse and unnatural. "Without my fair portion?"
Erik narrowed his eyes in disgust. "Be grateful I am allowing you to leave here with your life. If I granted you what was fair you would be hanging from a tree. Eustace!"
The Scotsman broke out of his trance and grabbed Richard beneath the shoulder as a second man came around to his other side, both of them wresting the usurper to his feet. Specks of blood flecked the dark ring around his neck, his actions sluggish, as Erik watched the two roughly escort the fiend away from camp. He then turned to the boy at his side.
"Tobias, see to supper. Bring my lady's portion and mine to the tent when it is prepared."
"Aye, milord," the boy replied with a nervous bob of his head. He scampered to where a cauldron sat over a fire, shielded from the worst of the rain by a thick overhang of foliage high above.
With the most urgent of business behind him, the Phantom set his sights to the only place he wished to be, hopeful he would be well received. He regretted that she had seen, should have known her curiosity would allow nothing less. But he'd had no choice.
It was then he realized that he remembered her curiosity, remembered also in detail two of the worst moments of his life when she surrendered to that girlish curiosity and unmasked what shielded the hideous visage of a monster. In his rage and hurt, he misunderstood both times. Not until finding himself in this century did he realize in full that it truly wasn't his face but his actions she feared.
Actions such as those of moments ago.
xXx
Once the troublemaker who'd come so close to death was brutally escorted from the silent camp, nearly dragged away, Christine slipped back inside the tent. With her hands squeezing her elbows, she hugged herself and walked with slow, uncertain steps to the opposite side of the cramped dwelling, her mind ruthlessly playing back all she'd seen. She had been unable to hear much, only when voices were lifted in shouts, and her vision had been impaired by a few low-hanging branches. Even then, she'd been able to follow the proceedings.
No one had attacked with weapons, only words; regardless the Phantom had struck out in a rage horribly familiar ...
A stir of canvas brought her around to see him duck inside. Rainwater streamed from his cloak to puddle on the ground, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his mask a wet sheen.
"Are you alright?" he asked after an interminable span of edged silence.
She offered a brusque nod, unable to stop shivering with fright.
"Christine…" His tone came pleading and miserable. He held his hand out to her, and though she did not flinch in retreat, neither did she take it. "It had to be done," he said a little more firmly, slowly approaching her. He dropped his hand back to his side. "He posed a threat to us… Will you not speak to me?"
Her thoughts eddied into a whirlpool of past and present, both with similar outcomes. "Why must there always be such violence?" she implored. "Why must you always react that way?"
His jaw hardened and a flash of wounded bitterness surfaced in his eyes. "I warned you of what I was the morning you woke in my lair. I pleaded with you then to find the man behind the monster, but I fear it is too late for that. Too long I have known nothing but darkness. From the time I was a child, daily I was forced to fight to survive; I had to kill to stay alive. I know nothing but intimidation and violence. I never had a mother to hold me or a father to instruct me. No one cared. And so, invisible to the world's concern, I became a Ghost at the opera that is no more..." He wearily shook his head. "You would have been far wiser to keep your distance from me and remain in your privileged world, Christine - but instead, here you are, trapped with the Ghost who had aspirations of becoming a man - but is destined to be no more than a beast!"
He whipped about, his every action tense as he crouched down to make a fire in the small circle of stones. Disheartened by his bitter proclamation and sympathetic after another startling look into his troubled past, she watched as he fiercely struck steel against flint. At last, golden sparks sprayed the many twigs of wood and caught, a tendril of smoke forming. He scooped up a second pile of dry leaves, dumping them on top and blowing against them until the smoke thickened. Only then did he sit back on his heels and stare at the meager flame that rose and found tinder, spreading quickly until a low, steady fire blazed.
Christine fought back old fears and approached, but couldn't prevent the betraying tremble of her hand as she reached out and softly touched his shoulder.
"Erik…"
Beneath her touch, he seemed to wilt in defeat. "Say the word, Christine, and I will take you back to the standing stones this very hour."
His despairing words stole the breath from her lungs. Swiftly she moved beside him, crouching as he crouched, and put her hand firmly to his sleeve.
"I told you, I don't wish for that, not unless you're with me."
He would not look at her. "You are frightened of me."
"I fear the violence – that is what frightens me. To see you like that, so furious, with your rope around his neck…" She shuddered. "It reminded me of what happened at the Opera House. Of what you did to Piangi and Buquet…"
"I need no reminder of my mistakes." He shrugged his arm from her fingers, but she returned her grip and held to him more tightly.
"But then I remember how you saved me from the attack last week. How you always have sought to protect me, then and now. Had you not arrived that night, I would have had my virtue seized from me; I could have been hurt much worse than I was or even killed."
As she spoke, his eyes widened, startled, searching the flames to and fro as if desperately searching his mind before finding her intent gaze in anxious question.
"You don't remember, do you?" she asked gently. "Never mind. I only brought it up to tell you – your actions, though they did frighten me, I think I must accept. I have come to realize that day-to-day issues are so very different in this world. Violence is more widely used and accepted to resolve disputes; even without a reason for conflict, bloodshed doesn't always go punished - and the punishments are incredibly severe. And perhaps…perhaps it is fortunate that you are the way you are. It might be the only way that we can survive in this era."
He shook his head. "You should not need to make allowances to be with me, Christine. I wanted you to have the world. You should not have to settle for the actions of a monster."
"You're not a monster."
He said nothing, and Christine lowered herself to sit more comfortably on her calves. Catching sight of what remained of her nineteenth century chemise nearby, strips having been torn away to help bind the injured marauder what seemed a lifetime ago, she again reached for the scrap. Hesitating only briefly, she gently took a portion of his dripping hair in one hand and wrapped the dry silk around the dark glossy locks. The material was hardly absorbent, but it helped take away some of the moisture.
She felt him jolt in surprise at the first touch of her hands.
"I never thought you a monster, Erik. Sometimes, when you lash out at others for no reason, it frightens me, what you might do. What I've seen you do. I worry, but not just for them…I worry for you."
The revelation of her words surprised him. "You worry for me?"
"Of course." She shook her head a little that he still could not see it. "In the days of the opera, I often feared that your rage might backfire, like a loaded pistol, and damage you irreparably."
He huffed a disparaging chuckle. "And so it nearly did. But what of you, Christine? I have lashed out at you, many times. Surely you must have thought me a monster then?"
She took another wet lock of his hair, dabbing it with the silky cloth. "No. I didn't like it, of course, and I suppose I was anxious with shock by your outrage, but deep in my soul I knew you would never hurt me. I have always known that."
Swallowing hard, he reached around and grabbed her wrist near his jaw, startling her. Bringing her hand closer, he plucked the cloth from her grasp and kissed her palm near her wrist, the touch of his lips on her skin setting off tingles of warmth that helped dispel the chill of the rain.
"What do you know about me?" he asked very quietly, releasing her.
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Those at the opera house have certainly filled your ears with stories, Madame Giry and others."
She gnawed softly at the inside corner of her lips. "Joseph Buquet used to sing a song; it was rather foolish. And there were always whispers…" She blew out a breath. "But yes, I did hear something of your childhood."
"From Madame Giry," he said with a resigned nod.
"Actually…" She prayed her next words would not make matters worse between them. "Raoul told me." At the sudden piercing look of blue-gray eyes turned on her, she inhaled a breath. "Madame told him."
"Why the devil she felt the need,…" he growled to himself, then shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore." Several seconds of heavy silence elapsed. "What exactly did the fool boy tell you?"
Her eyes fell shut. "That you were taken by gypsies and…lived in a cage."
"Anything else?" he snapped.
"That you killed your jailer," she whispered, almost feeling guilty that she'd been given such information. She never asked for it, but Raoul had been all too eager to share.
His breath came out a near growl. "I see."
Two small words delivered such an unbearable weight, and she sought for what to say to break their chains.
"Do you truly wish to understand, Christine?" he said quite suddenly. "The story of my commencement into this world is not pretty; it is dark and it is violent - certainly unfit for angels."
That he still considered her one gave her some hope that any irritation with her had lessened. This time she did not hesitate to lay her hand over his that were now clasped tightly together at his knees.
"Yes, Erik, I want to know your story."
xXx
A/N: And so, Erik is slowly regaining his memory of the Opera House and forgetting his time as Le Masque (broken spells are funny things; they don't follow a set pattern lol), but what will that mean for their future in this medieval world? What has Erik planned for them? And meanwhile, what is happening with Le Masque?... ;-) (muahahaha)